


If the Gods Are Good...

by BookishPower



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Braime - Freeform, But hopefully one that preserves their dignity, Canon-ish till the end of "The Bells", F/M, Healing, Mad Queen Dany even if I think her character arc was ruined, Not A Fix-It, The big death at the end of "The Bells" is not the only one, lots of hugs and tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 11:50:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19463395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookishPower/pseuds/BookishPower
Summary: Daenerys has taken King's Landing in blood and fire, but she's still thinking fairly clearly - and her thoughts turn to who let Jaime go free from Winterfell. Brienne has escorted Lady Sansa south, and must break one oath to keep another. Jaime takes his sister into the passages below the Red Keep, but with another purpose in mind.Warning: File this one under “tragedy.”





	If the Gods Are Good...

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic between the airing of "The Bells" and "The Iron Throne," as I truly feared D&D would pull a "subverts expectations" death before someone finally put Daenerys down. It kind of took on a life of its own. 
> 
> I really hate Daenerys's sudden heel-turn - while I felt she might have gotten there, it was far too rushed to feel like an organic part of her story. That being said, I will still use it for story purposes. 
> 
> As for Jaime, I'm giving him his brain back.

It's hard to walk through King's Landing in the aftermath. Difficult even to breathe, let alone face the horrors of charred bodies littering the streets, navigate the collapsed buildings and piles of rubble. Those who survived shy away from soldiers, with good reason.

It is under this cloak of smoke and ashes that Brienne slips through. She's well-known to the armies of Stark, Unsullied, and to the khalasar, waved through as a messenger from Lady Stark, a day behind her on the Kingsroad. She'd smelled the smoke for miles before she'd been in sight of the city, urging her horse faster and faster, dread curdling her innards. 

No more than a few days behind Jaime on the Kingsroad, Lord Bran suddenly insistent that he and his sister follow the army south on the Kingsroad. Brienne disagreed – Sansa was safer and more powerful from her castle in the North – but she obeyed. Every village they passed, every posting station, her heart was in her mouth at the prospect of Jaime being there. She'd like to break his nose, but also, to bandage it up afterwards with a kiss. 

Love is miserable.

She's almost glad for the smoke. Everyone is weeping, and everyone can blame it on the choking, nauseating ashes that fill their lungs and eyes. Brienne finally pulls a handkerchief from her saddlebag, ties it around her nose and mouth.

It doesn't make breathing any easier, even with the ash out of her lungs.

But it does cover the movements of her lips, muttering a prayer her mother used to sing in her ear, that smallfolk would chant when days-long tempests would wreck Tarth. _Something about the Mother gentling the winds, the Father sending the floods back into the sea..._

King's Landing doesn't look like a city in the aftermath of war. It looks like a city in the aftermath of some horrific force of nature, like an earthshake, or the flaming mountains of Dragonstone. As if the city was faced with an immovable, merciless force, rather than the just Stark lord and the dragon queen who had freed the slaves of Essos.

Brienne picks her way through the streets as quickly as she can, aiming for the remains of the Red Keep. A Stark bannerman who recognized her had pointed her in that direction, noting that the dragon queen had settled there in the aftermath, and that the Warden of the North and all officers had followed.

She asks after Lord Tyrion, and he confirms that the Hand is there as well.

It's as close as she gets to asking about Ser Jaime.

When she finally beholds the wreckage up close, it's far more terrible than she could have imagined. Harrenhal still showed its damage decades later, and Brienne decides that sections of the Red Keep is mostly done for, broken towers slipping in and out of the drifting ash clouds, like splintered bones. The White Sword Tower briefly appears before another veil of smoke descends, and she hates the rise of hope in her chest that it brings.

The stairs leading up to the Keep are ringed with Unsullied. She leaves her horse with one, explaining her mission as an envoy to the Ward of the North. She wishes for a raven at that moment, one she could send to Sansa telling her to turn around and head back to Winterfell. Pod is with her, but she wants both of them to safety, both of them where a dragon could never touch them.

The best she can do is get a lay of the land first, let Sansa lead the diplomatic charge.

It is unsettling, climbing stairs through the charged silence of the Unsullied. The metallic sounds of her armor and the crunch of broken stones under her feet sound too loud. Atop the stairs, several Unsullied have excavated the Iron Throne and are shining it. Brienne stares, mouth open under her cloth, at the absurdity of attending to this task amid all the destruction.

She moves on, inquiring of the Ward of the North or Lord Tyrion. The Ward of the North is reported to be with Queen Daenerys, and Brienne decides on the spot to postpone that meeting until she understands what happened. Lord Tyrion, however, was spotted wandering debris down by the bay, and she heads in what she believes is that direction.

The Keep is riddled with damage, more ruin than ramparts, and feeling an absurd sense of urgency, Brienne hurries through, no longer caring about the noise she's making. She knows the dragon is here, somewhere, her skin prickling like a hare in the grass, hearing the fox roaming in the distance.

She is relieved when she finally reaches the coastline, pockmarked with fallen debris. She puts a hand up to shade her eyes, attempting to see if other towers are hanging precariously over her head, then decides it would be a quick death and mercy compared to others that might be waiting here for her.

Lord Tyrion seems to be of the same mind – she finds him, not long after, sitting atop a stone and staring into the ebbing tide.

He looks up at her approach, then back at the water. 

“Lord Tyrion,” she calls out, pulling the kerchief from her face. “What has happened?”

He looks up at her, unseeingly, and seems for once to be at a loss for words, then turns to the sea once more. His mouth opens, once or twice, before he finds the breath for speech. 

“Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin. I thought...I thought we had a merciful queen. One who freed the slaves in Essos, who imprisoned her dragons rather than risk them killing a child...” he broke off, his throat choked with tears, rather than smoke.

“She burned the city? Did they surrender?” Even had they not, burning the city like this seemed more the act of a child in tantrum than the grave queen that Brienne had stood before in Winterfell.

She could not risk Sansa in all this. Brienne needed to warn Sansa, find Arya, and get them out. She begins mentally counting the miles between King's Landing and Lady Sansa's party on the Kingsroad, and how long it would take them to arrive, how long it would take her to warn them if she flew off at a full gallop.

“The bells rang. I told Jaime to ring them if he could, told the troops and the queen to stop attacking if they rang. He rang them. They rang all over the city. But she just...she just kept on.”

Brienne can't quell the leap in her stomach at the mention of Jaime's name. “My lord, where is Ser Jaime?”

The little man looked at her, the name of his brother pulling him away from the ocean, and in his eyes she sees a soul that has aged years in a day.

“He was caught attempting to cross the Stark line,” Tyrion begins. “I managed to send the guards away and let him escape. We smuggled him into the city, with the hope that he could get Cersei to surrender. He hoped to get his child out safely...but...” he breaks off, gesturing to an empty dinghy.

Brienne slides to her knees before she even feels herself fall. A choked-off cry echoes against the sea walls. Tyrion is at her side, chivalry instinctive.

“ _I tried..._ ” she rasps. “I tried to get him to stay. But he called himself hateful, said he had done terrible things for Cersei, that she was hateful, too.” The words spill out of the wound he had left her with, patched over and willfully ignored until it met Tyrion's lance.

“We did all we could, my gentle knight.” Tyrion is as broken as she is. “But all of his children were consumed by death. He was determined to bring this one up and away from our hateful sister.” He looks bleakly at the ruins of the Keep above them. “He was too late in getting her out. If the child ever existed, it lies dead with them now.”

Brienne pushes her fist to her mouth. She's determined not to cry, having wept too many tears in the interim. She wants to scream at Tyrion, to dig into the rubble with her own hands, before she accepts that Jaime is truly gone.

But he was gone the moment he mounted his saddle and headed south. No matter the reason, she wept because she knew he was going to his death.

He would die with his sister rather than live with her. She's heard of the child, doubted its existence, but kept silent on the issue with Jaime, unwilling to voice an opinion that caused him pain. Brienne never expected to be in the position of having this kind of connection with a man. No knightly tales nor women's talk ever prepared her for what to say or do when her lover left her for another woman carrying his child.

She's tried hard not to resent him for it, to let the sweet memories be poisoned by the bad.

Brienne gives in and weeps, gut-wrenching sobs torn from her very soul, and feels Tyrion weeping into her shoulder. They sit on the beach for what feels like an eternity, and Brienne wishes that she could sink into the sea with her grief. Here she is, once more, weeping for and hating, in equal measure, the man who has brought her to these depths.

***

_Earlier that day…_

Jaime tears up the stairs as quickly as he can, slipping here and there on the worn stone steps.

_Ring the bells_ , Tyrion had begged him. _Ring the bells, save the city._

It’s not as daring as stabbing a king through the back. But he’s not seventeen anymore, either, and his knees protest their hard use more than they once did. If the city is saved, Daenerys can execute him and he’ll sing a merry song as he walks into the dragon’s jaws. The people would be safe once more, his child might grow up in safety, Brienne would know that his leaving was a knightly act, if his letter didn’t make it…

_Brienne._

He concentrates once more on navigating the bell tower, aware that every moment he dithers is another moment lost.

Tyrion had asked him to convince Cersei to surrender. But Tyrion seems to keep thinking that Cersei is capable of rational thought. Jaime knows his sister, knows that she’ll never give up the ultimate prize she sought, that which was most dear to her. If he can get the city to surrender, she’ll have no choice, and he can keep their child safe.

Let the Dragon Queen execute them as soon as the babe is born, let the child be raised by Tyrion, let the child grow up trained to hate the thought of their Uncle Jaime. _Just, please, gods, let this child be born._

He finds his way to the bell tower proper, takes a moment to survey the city skyline.

In the distance, he can see the Iron Fleet smoking. A dark shape blots out the sun and eliminates a scorpion perched on the city walls. Jaime instinctively ducks, though he’s safely far from the walls. The dragon, small queen perched on his back, continues to rain hell down the line of defenses, belching fire that consumes and destroys. The Old Gate explodes in a hail of mortar and rock, and Jaime figures that that’s the last anyone will ever hear of the Golden Company.

Now was the time. Before the armies began sacking the city. Honor would compel them to halt their attack if the Lannister forces threw down their swords, and they would throw down their swords if they heard the bells.

Jon Snow might be a dour little Northerner, but he had Ned Stark’s sense of honor. He’d stop his army.

Jaime finds the bellpull, tugs on it fiercely with one arm. 

Nothing.

_They had to send the one-handed man to ring the bells, didn’t they?_

He pulls again and again, trying for some sort of leverage. _Gods help him, had Cersei ordered the bells disabled so the city could not surrender?_ Finally, he gets the bright idea of jumping up, securing the rope between his knees, the knot under his feet. Holding on for dear life, he uses his body weight in a desperate attempt to get the enormous bell moving. 

The clapper slowly shifts from side to side, and Jaime nearly cheers when it strikes the side of the bell. Then he nearly jumps off the rope, forgetting that he was inside the bell as it pealed its supplication to the invading armies. His eyes vibrate with the force of the bell’s ringing, teeth rattling in his jaw. But he refuses to let go.

It's the loudest prayer he's ever made, the young man who turned his back on the Seven for most of his life, save in a few moments. The message is partly for Daenerys, but mostly for the Seven, begging her and them for _mercy, mercy, mercy!_

A few more peals, and Jaime swings like a child in this orb of sound, a wild joy overtaking his movements as it works, as the bells continue chiming. Then he cheers, a wild high laugh as he hears other bell towers take up the same plea. 

The city is alive with song, with a determination to stay alive. What matter if the queen is a Targaryen? They were never fond of the Lannisters. Who really cares who holds the throne? They don’t want to burn. Except for Cersei, Qyburn, perhaps a few of the generals, no one here was guilty of anything but following orders.

_In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent…_

He jumps off, ducks out from under the bell, the better to see what the dragon queen will do. Perhaps he could still slip into the Keep, get Cersei and their child out before anyone notices? Or even better, Tyrion could be clever again, say that he sent his brother into the city just to surrender, and Daenerys could show mercy, let the child be born, send Cersei into exile…let him take the child North and beg forgiveness…

Jaime spots the dragon perched atop a building near the ruins of the Old Gate. The dragon is screeching in outrage, but attacks nothing. Perhaps it didn’t like the sound of the bells. But it’s not blasting fire anymore, and Jaime exhales a breath he didn’t even know he was holding.

_It was over._

When he pictured their family losing the Seven Kingdoms, he always imagined he’d go down fighting. He never thought that he’d nearly be weeping with relief that it was finished. He grins, leans his head against the wall, begins laughing again. 

_Maybe, just maybe, this would have a happy ending. There had to be some knights who lived to old age with someone who loved them, children at their side? Why not two together?_

Then, amidst the din of the bells, over his echoing laughter, he hears it.

That unearthly, throat-cut shrieking of that damned dragon. An explosion, another, echoing across the city. 

_No…_

He turns from the wall to look back out over the city. The giant lizard has risen once more into the sky, exhaling destruction and fury. One breath, and a peal of fire takes out a row of houses. Another breath, and alehouses and bakeries are consumed in flame.

_No – the bells were ringing!_ They were pealing madly all over the city – surely, the queen had to have heard it! 

He imagined that some Lannister troops were putting up a final fight, that the queen was striking them down. He sees the faces of the commanders in his mind, of soldiers he’d known since they were boys. Men who deserved to see an end to war, to die old in their beds, surrounded by children and grandchildren.

Surely, it must stop, he thinks. Surely, they’ll stop fighting the dragon. There’s no point. _The throne doesn’t matter._

“Stand down, you idiots!” he roars, nearly a mile distant, but still trying to keep his troops alive. “Stand down!”

The dragon queen wheels about in the sky, chooses a different street in Flea Bottom, roasting buildings as she goes. With a sinking in his stomach, Jaime realizes that there’s no way the army would be this scattered.

_She’s gone mad._

But instead of Aerys impotently screaming for someone else to burn the city, his daughter is completing the job on her own. No one can touch her in the skies, and she’s on a mission to destroy them all – soldiers, civilians, babes in arms.

The dragon breathes fire again, and a dozen nameless buildings incinerate, dooming every soul within. She wheels about and sets the next street on fire, before skipping over to the Street of the Sisters, razing everything in sight.

His throat feels sore, and Jaime realizes he’s been screaming. He cuts himself off on a moan, watching Flea Bottom burn, watching the dragon move on to the Guildhall, the Hook, then aim for the Red Keep. Still, the bells ring, pleading for mercy.

_Brienne, I tried. I tried._

The Targaryen queen has gone mad, and the only thing left for him to do now was to get his child and its mother out of danger. Or to kill Cersei herself if the child was a lie.

But it couldn’t be, he reasons with himself, stumbling down the bell tower stairs, tears of shame and failure blinding him. Cersei was a hateful woman, but she cared about her children. She wouldn’t love power more than her children. _She wouldn’t go this far if not for a child_ , he reasons. A child he must now ferry to Pentos, to Essos, anywhere safe, or die trying.

He is a hateful man, but there is still life in him.

***

Brienne gathers herself some time later, knowing that she needed to return to her lady, report back all the horrors, prepare her before she enters the city and the grasp of the dragon queen – or get her to turn back north if possible. She estimates that if she leaves now, she'll meet Sansa a few miles outside the city.

Tyrion's head is heavy on her shoulder, and she gently nudges him from his grief.

“I need to report back to Lady Sansa...she's just outside the city,” she whispers. “Come with me. We can try to get you out. You could escape to Braavos, to...” she trails off as Tyrion shakes his head.

“You are as gentle and good as my brother always said,” he murmurs, fingering the pin on his breast. “But I'm done escaping across the ocean. In any case, our queen could track me with Lord Bran, burn me with her dragon. I've helped create a monster. There's nothing for it but to be destroyed by her.”

“My lord...don't let me see another Lannister run toward his death,” she croaks. “Please.”

He takes her hand, then, kisses it, and holds on. “It's more that we're exceptionally stupid, my lady knight,” he finally concludes. “My sister would never accept defeat, my brother would never accept leaving family to die, and I will never accept a bad ruler on the throne.”

Brienne nods, knowing that he is on a path of his own choosing. The Lannister house will go extinct today, in a hail of broken rubble and a rain of dragonfire. Mostly by their own choosing.

And she has experience being unable to protect those whom she loves.

She rises to her feet, bows to the last scion of House Lannister. “Farewell, Lord Tyrion.”

He bows in return. “Farewell, Ser Brienne of Tarth.”

They part then, going opposite directions. Brienne hears the wild cries of the Dothraki, the stamping of Unsullied spears, sees Tyrion walk unsteadily in that direction. She, on the other hand, has her own path, her own oaths to fulfill. She catches sight of surrendered Lannister soldiers being executed, wants to protest, but has a lady to protect, and no chance against an entire regiment of Unsullied soldiers.

She can feel dragons snapping at her heels and spears at her back as she makes tracks to retake her horse, to gallop outside the city, heart in her mouth at every step. If at all possible, she needs to turn Lady Sansa around, find Arya, who must be lurking around somewhere, and head north. 

They must have picked up speed after she rode ahead, for she spots Lady Sansa's banners no more than two miles outside the walls. Pod rides at their head, cantering ahead when they spot one another on the road, his young face creased in worry as he takes in her armor caked in ash, as he catches the smoke in her hair, dark smuts on her face.

“Ser? We’ve met some people fleeing the city, and they said the dragon burned it all down.” She nods sharply, gestures for him to wheel about and follow her to Lady Sansa’s side. 

Sansa rides a white palfrey beside Bran’s black one, further back in the line and surrounded by Stark soldiers, to Brienne’s relief. The young lord’s eyes are rolled back into his head, a sight Brienne will never really get used to, and Sansa appears to be guiding his horse with her own, looking grimly at her approaching knight.

“My lady,” Brienne calls out. “You may want to call a halt and decide if you should move further. King’s Landing is sacked, nearly destroyed.”

“Company halt!” Sansa calls out, and the party stops. She breaks from the line, urging Bran’s horse forward with her own. Brienne urges Pod forward, who takes the reins from Sansa and brings the lord forward. They pause at the side of the road, out of earshot of the Winterfell party.

“Start from the beginning,” Sansa instructs, paler than usual. 

“The armies waited outside King’s Landing for the queen and her dragon to take out the Iron Fleet and the scorpions along the wall,” Brienne begins. “She did so, with no injury to herself or her dragon. She then destroyed the gate and the Golden Company in one blow, and the armies were able to enter the city.” She takes a breath, deciding not to shroud the next bit in secrecy.

“Ser Jaime was captured by the Stark soldiers trying to cross into King’s Landing,” she continues, feeling Sansa’s eyes examining her closely. She concentrates on the bridge of her lady’s nose. “Lord Tyrion let him out last night with the instruction to ring the bells in surrender. And he did it – the bells rang. But the queen didn’t stop. The armies threw down their swords, and she burned the city to the ground.”

“Jon?”

“His grace is alive, last I heard. The Stark armies encountered little resistance, but the Unsullied are murdering the surrendered soldiers.”

“Arya?”

“No sign.”

Sansa sighs, closes her eyes in grief. “How much of the city is lost?”

“I couldn’t say for certain, my lady. Most of the western side of the city, Flea Bottom, the guildhalls. The Keep took a great deal of damage, but still stands. The dead…there are thousands of dead…are charcoal in the streets. Parts of the city are still on fire.”

Sansa nods, takes it in. “Cersei?”

“Dead. With Ser Jaime.” It comes out in strangled syllables, and she can see the sympathy in Sansa’s eyes. She looks away. Perhaps her red eyes can be blamed on the smoke.

“My lady, we should return north,” she continues. “The Targaryen queen is in a killing mood. I’ll do my best, but I’m not much of a shield against dragonfire.”

“We cannot,” Bran speaks then, and Brienne nearly starts in alarm, seeing his flat gaze trained on her. “Jon has need of you, ser. As do many. You cannot protect them if you are miles away.”

“I do not wish to contradict you, my lord,” Brienne replies, “but my concern is for your safety, your sister’s, and for the reign of your house in the north. I can’t stand against dragonfire, and I can’t protect you if I’m dead.”

Bran says nothing, and Brienne supposes that that’s the most they’ll get out of him today.

Sansa shakes her head, drawing in a slow sigh. “There have been riders from the Unsullied passing by, sending word out to surrounding houses. Our presence has been noted. If we turn around now, Daenerys will question it. We should continue on, offer our support to Jon and our armies.”

Brienne dips her head in acknowledgement. “Pod, please bring me a flask of water.”

Once her squire was out of earshot, she continued. “Lord Tyrion is likely to be executed this afternoon. He was not imprisoned when I saw him, but told me about letting his brother out. He was going to go surrender to the queen when we parted.”

Lady Sansa absorbs this news. “Why send Pod away?”

“You remember he squired for Lord Tyrion, and was very fond of him. My lady…if we’re required to attend the execution…” she breaks off.

“The execution of my husband?” Sansa reminds her, pointedly. 

“Yes,” Brienne breathes out. “If we are, I don’t want Pod attending. I think he might try to save Tyrion, and the queen is not in a forgiving mood. He has already had to watch the execution of the knight he served before Tyrion.”

The lady of Winterfell nods in agreement. “I’ll keep him busy setting up my tent.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

The party quickens its pace towards King’s Landing, though Brienne can see the trepidation in their faces. When they clear the treeline and behold the smoking ruins of the city, she sees the faces of the bannermen and soldiers crease in dread.

Starks had little reason to sympathize much with Southerners, even less with those in a city held by Lannisters. But the soldiers know what it’s like to be in a city besieged by otherworldly creatures, know what it’s like to have an army invade their walls and turn their lives upside down. 

She scans the cityline and the skies for the dragon, but finds no sign of its whereabouts. They cross the road to a lightly-garrisoned Stark camp on the dry plain. She greets a familiar officer, asks for the whereabouts of Lord Stark, and he points her to a tent with direwolf banners. Brienne turns back, escorting Sansa and pushing Bran’s chair to the war tent. 

Inside the dim interior of canvas and candlelight, Brienne’s eyes adjust to spot the Warden of the North slumped on a stool, facing a young woman standing before him. _Arya._

Brienne was long reconciled to the knowledge that protecting this Stark sister was impossible. Arya could protect herself, was likely far better able to protect herself than Brienne could. But seeing her caked in ashes, wearing clothing scorched by dragonfire, with dried blood sticking on her skin…Brienne couldn’t help but feel a failure. The girl had departed Winterfell shortly after the troops, and when Brienne offered to ride after her, Sansa just shook her head and said that Arya was beyond anyone’s control, least of all hers.

Sansa seemed to stagger forward a step, gathering her sister and brother into an embrace. Seeing that a family council was likely, Brienne makes ready to bow out.

“Ser Brienne, please stay,” Jon calls out. She nods and takes a position at the tent flap, reminding her terribly of the old days in Renly’s camp, when life was simpler, when her heart ached for a love unspoken. 

She glances around a moment as Sansa explains to Jon why they left Winterfell. Spotting a basin of water and some towels, she brings it over to Arya.

“May I?” she asks. She leaves off the honorific, as she knows Arya hates it. 

The girl grimaces. “I can do it myself.”

“You could. But without a looking glass, you’re going to have a hard time figuring out if that gash on your brow needs stitches or not. I suspect we’ll be called in for Lord Tyrion’s trial soon enough, so you might as well take care of this while you can. If it’s bad, we’ll find a maester.”

Arya shrugs, and Brienne takes that as the only permission she’s going to get. She kneels before the youngest Stark, dips the cloth in water, and begins gently removing the filth from her face. 

“Did you leave to kill Cersei?” she asks quietly, continuing her care. She probes the girl’s skull, feeling for lumps and swells. 

Arya nods, staring at her fingers. 

“She’s dead,” Brienne tells her then, not sure how gentle she should be with this news. The girl had obviously wanted Cersei to pay for all the suffering she had wrought. Brienne doesn’t think there ever will be adequate recompense for that. “The Red Keep fell on her head while she was escaping.”

Arya smiled then, but there was no satisfied vengeance to it. “Clegane was right,” she murmurs.

Brienne rinses the cloth, goes back to dabbing at the wound on Arya’s brow. “Ser Clegane was with you? Is he…?”

The girl shakes her head slowly. “Fairly sure he’s dead now. Went to go fight his brother, but he told me to give up on Cersei. Said that she would be dead either way, and I shouldn’t die, too.”

Brienne once threw the man off of a mountain cliff and he refused to die, so she’s not as certain as Arya. But she continues to wash the mask of ashes from the girl’s face, not remarking when her cloth removes fresh tears as well, returning to Arya’s cheeks every few moments to clean them away again.

“I think it was even better that way, though,” Arya continues, wincing as Brienne probes the gash in her hairline. “If I’d done it, I would have made her death unforgettable. This way, she has a death no more memorable than anyone else. Probably less so, since she didn’t die by dragonfire. She’ll be forgotten, and she’d hate that.”

Brienne doesn’t reply, not if she wants to keep from bursting into tears again. This grief, this longing for Jaime was like an open wound that wouldn’t heal. She’d known he was dead the moment he left Winterfell and never looked back. She wonders then if he’d looked back at King’s Landing when he left to go north, if he’d intended to live at all.

She slams the door on this train of thought, refusing to stew a moment longer. The Starks were still in danger, and she needed to refocus. She could fall into pieces later.

“The one on your brow should be all right if you keep it clean,” she murmurs to the girl. “The one in your hairline should be seen to by a maester – it could use a few stitches.”

“Thank you,” Arya replies, making rare eye contact with the knight. For Brienne, it’s as if she has locked eyes with a direwolf. There is something about this young woman that makes Brienne feel as if she’s been made responsible for a wild animal.

“Jon, what happened?” Sansa interrupts their quiet conference, drawing them back into the crisis. “Was she planning this?”

Brienne takes a closer look at the Ward of the North, inspects the lines crossing his brow as he bows his head, not answering his sister. He’s younger than she, but looks far older. _Command will do that to people_ , she considers, _but so will obedience_. He looks even older and more careworn than he appeared at Castle Black, freshly resurrected and uncomfortably back in his own skin.

“Did she not hear the bells? Why did she slaughter the city?” Sansa continues to press, refusing to let Jon escape the horrors of the day, or his part in them.

“Our queen has liberated the city,” Jon replies tonelessly. “She is celebrating her victory with the Unsullied and Dothraki at the Keep. She has taken the Iron Throne, and we will bend the knee.”

“To the woman who just murdered thousands?” Sansa snarls. “She sailed to her throne on a river of innocent blood, Jon.”

“She is my queen,” Jon replies in a defeated voice. 

“Yes, you’ve said that often enough,” Sansa remarks sharply. “She is your queen. But she is also the murderer of thousands of innocents.”

“And she may murder more,” Arya murmurs, taking a seat. “I didn’t understand much – I only know a little Valyrian. But she was certainly talking about liberating Winterfell and Dorne.”

“Two kingdoms who have already bent the knee to her,” Sansa nods at her sister, and Brienne can see she is thankful for her support. “Why would she need to liberate Dorne and Winterfell? She just came from Winterfell.”

“It's done, Sansa,” the young man murmurs, and Brienne considers their surroundings, and who might be listening in. “Cersei will no longer threaten us.”

“And the dragon queen?” Sansa hisses back, unsatisfied with Jon's shocked compliance. “How long will it be before executions begin? How long will it be before she executes you for being too close an heir? How long before another population rises up and is burned to death? Jon, she's gone _mad_.”

Sansa rises up, comes to sit next to her brother, and takes his face in her hands. Brienne looks away, a bloody memory stabbing fiercely at her heart.

“I know you love her, Jon,” she pleads. “I know that you are kin.” 

Jon winces, and Brienne winces on his behalf – and Jaime's.

“But this is just the beginning of her reign, and it looks to be a bloody one. She isn't Joffrey – she doesn't randomly strike at people. The bells rang, the soldiers put down their swords. She made a _choice_ , and she _chose_ to burn thousands of innocents to death.”

“She is my queen,” Jon repeats, and Sansa sighs, pulls her hands away. “What can I do, Sansa?”

“What I will do, is I will bend the knee and return north as soon as I can,” Sansa replies, disappointment in every syllable. “She will not visit this destruction on Winterfell. Perhaps the North will free itself in a generation, but not so long as dragons are in Westeros, nor so long as this mad queen remains in power.”

“That would be wise.” Jon's eyes turn away from his sister, search out her own. “Ser Brienne?”

“My lord?”

He pulls a folded parchment from his jerkin. “You may be aware that Ser Jaime was captured trying to cross our lines into King's Landing before the battle. He escaped from our prison, and Lord Tyrion is implicated. He’s to be tried in the throne room this afternoon, and we all must attend.”

Brienne inhales sharply. “I had heard, my lord.”

“This was found left in Lord Tyrion's tent, addressed to you.” The young lord pulled a folded parchment from his jerkin. “I haven't been able to speak to Lord Tyrion, but after reading it, it did not seem like anything of interest to her grace.”

He proffers the parchment, and Brienne hesitates for a second before taking it. Sansa looks at her as if she expects Brienne to read it there on the spot. Jon eyes his sister a moment.

“Perhaps you should excuse your knight to read it in private,” he suggests, and Sansa nods. Brienne bows her gratitude and walks away as quickly as she can without it being considered a run.

There is nowhere in this field of war tents that she can really be private, though. And she desperately wants some cover to see Jaime’s final words to her. Cruel or kind, staid or sympathetic, they are his last act with her in mind. 

All her life, she wanted to know love. To know a man who wanted her just for herself, wanted her despite her shortcomings. She never thought she’d experience it, but for the briefest space of time, she knew love. Now she knows its dregs, the bitterness of rejection, abandonment, and the death of her beloved, when her love for him refused to die. She must know this, too.

Finally, Brienne finds a quiet corridor between empty tents, and unfolds the parchment with trembling fingers.

She reads it. Reads it again. Whispers the words to herself, can hear his warm voice murmuring them in her ear. Commits them to memory, then reads it again.

_He is dead, he is dead, but for the briefest of moments, he is here, beside me._

“Ser Brienne?” Abruptly, Brienne is brought into the present, away from Jaime. She looks up at Pod, then realizes that she sat down without being aware of it. There is a telltale dampness on her cheeks, but her squire simply sits down next to her, so they might both contemplate the tent’s canvas.

“I’m sorry, Ser Brienne,” the lad mumbles. “I’m so sorry.”

She folds the parchment back up, presses it to her heart. With her other arm, she reaches over to pull his head to her shoulder. He understands, allows her to rest her head on his own. 

If she had a son, she would want them to be like Pod, she thinks. Brave and true, gallant with the ladies, loyal to a fault, determined to be a knight.

“Thank you, Pod” she says, aware the words are inadequate. She tries again, decides to try with her soft heart. “If I had a son, I'd want him to be like you.”

He doesn't respond, but reaches up to clasp her hand on his shoulder with his own, intertwining their fingers and squeezing.

They sit there for a long while, and Brienne is tempted to reopen Jaime's letter, read it again. But it hammers home the fact that she will never see him again, never touch him again, never quarrel with him for fifteen minutes over the most trivial of matters, and so she keeps it folded against her breast, then tucks it into the safest hiding place she has.

“The soldiers are saying that Lord Tyrion is going on trial,” Pod asks, phrasing the statement as a question.

Brienne sighs. “Yes. He smuggled Ser Jaime out of prison and into King's Landing to try and make peace or convince the armies to surrender. He rang the bells, but the queen destroyed the city anyway. He tried to get his sister and their child out of the city, and they didn't make it.”

She sighs again, tired to the bone. “I spoke with Lord Tyrion himself, and he told me all of it. He then went to surrender to the queen.”

“Could we get him out?” 

_Dear Pod. Still such a boy, and will be such a fine knight._ Brienne wonders if she sounded so naïve, then decides that she was probably worse.

“No,” she replies firmly. “Pod, I want you to put it out of your head. There is no escape from this. I tried to get him to come with me, so we could send him safely out of the city. But he was as determined as his brother.”

She turns then, tips up his wobbling chin with her forefinger, and looks him in the eyes. “And I want you to stay here. I don't want you to see it happen.”

Pod doesn't have to ask what she means. “But I...”

“No buts. I had to watch Lord Renly die in front of me, and I could do nothing. If you go, your last image of your lord will be his execution, your last memory of him be one of helplessness,” she insists. “It never leaves you, and it haunts your nights and all your memories of that person. And I don't trust the queen not to execute more people than Tyrion. Lady Sansa has to go, and I must protect her. Let me spare you that, and let me spare you the sight of Tyrion passing.”

He doesn't agree, but acquiesces to her order, a good squire to the last. 

_He'll make a fine knight._

***

They enter the ruins of the Throne Room, a dismal wreck of its former self. Soldiers have obviously been hard at work clearing debris, for the roof is gone and the Iron Throne stands free in the open air. The sky is choked and grey, full of smoke and ash, though the sun attempts to piece the veil, and the place was eerily quiet, save for the tramp of their boots.

Perched atop the mountain of swords is Queen Daenerys, and behind her, fiercely staring down the assembling crowd, is Drogon. At her side is Grey Worm, a hard-faced man who bears little resemblance to the one who joyfully kissed Missandei when she emerged from the Winterfell crypts.

More Unsullied soldiers line the front room, spears in fists, Dothraki horsemen appear at the back, arakhs in hands. Brienne’s hackles rise at this – intimidation tactic or massacre plan? – and moves closer to Sansa, her hand not quite on Oathkeeper, but drifting near. At her other side, she feels Arya bristle, knows the girl is forming several potential paths of escape.

Brienne can already see that such would be useless – if the Dothraki and Unsullied didn’t slay them, the dragon easily would. This will be a game of wits, and she’s glad to have Sansa at her side. 

She can see Tyrion already there, manacles on his wrists, soldiers at his side. He looks resigned, more than anything, completely defeated by the day. The Hand pin is gone from his chest, and he glances toward Sansa with warning in his eyes.

Ignoring them all, Daenerys looks awestruck atop her throne, softly running her hands over the hilts and pommels of swords, as if unbelieving that it is hers at last. There’s wonder in her expression, as if she was a little girl with silly dreams that had just been realized.

As if she had not just murdered thousands of the people she claimed to fight for that morning.

Brienne turns her eyes away, looks up again at the dragon, and immediately wishes she hadn’t.

Strung from a section of standing wall are the broken bodies of Jaime and his sister. Limp as rag dolls, caked in dirt, they sway in the breeze, a clear warning to all. They hang suspended by their shoulders, but Brienne can see from here that Jaime’s neck is broken, arms smashed, Cersei’s head staved in from the back, dried blood on her white skin.

For a wild moment, she denies her sight, tells herself it cannot be, for Cersei was always poised and primped, never a hair out of place. Jaime would get dirty, but never her. It couldn’t be them.

But no. It was him.

That damned golden hand, relentlessly shining, gleams amidst the ashes.

Brienne cries out softly, then presses a fist to her lips to stifle any further outburst. Sansa’s hand slides into her own, and Brienne grips it gratefully.

_Oh, my love. Oh, Jaime._

She struggles with wanting to tear her gaze away and with wanting to always keep her gaze on his face. Had it been just a month ago that she’d helped him trim that beard? A month since those lips had then kissed her own in thanks, cheerfully scratching her face with her handiwork?

In the end, she forces her gaze back to surveying the dragon queen, lest she faint or retch or scream.

Daenerys Targaryen finally ends the contemplation of her father’s chair, and turns her deadly attention to the assembling crowd. Brienne watches her search out Jon Snow, her eyes softening as she finds him next to his sisters. Snow hasn’t left the Stark contingent to stand at Daenerys’s side, a fact which gladdens Brienne. Anything to make Daenerys pause before executing them.

“Thank you for coming so quickly and unexpectedly down the Kingsroad,” Daenerys calls out, and Brienne’s stomach twists. “I have summoned you here for the trial of my former Hand, Lord Tyrion Lannister. He stands accused of releasing his brother, Jaime Lannister, from the custody of the Unsullied, so that the Kingslayer could save his sister from the Queen’s justice, allowing them to try to strike me down later.”

She looks quickly over at Tyrion, and the youngest Lannister looks wary. Brienne knows that he’s already given himself up for a dead man – what could make him fear now?

“But the fact remains that Lord Tyrion was in the South at Dragonstone when the Kingslayer left Winterfell. He was staying as a guest of the Starks, but only a fool would have let him go on his own, to cross our lines, to give away our information, to tell our _closely guarded secrets_ ,” Daenerys continues, her voice ringing, eyes trained on Lady Sansa. Her eyes then shift to Arya beside her. “Moreover, Lady Arya is known to have crossed the lines and entered the city prior to battle. She was later spotted by some entering the Red Keep, where Cersei and her brother were found dead trying to escape. Perhaps sent by her sister to aid their escape?”

Brienne understands then, has to force herself not to grip Oathkeeper in her hand. It’s not a trial for Tyrion, but for Sansa. Daenerys might not be stupid enough to go after Arya, hero of the Battle of Winterfell, but she certainly sees Sansa as a threat.

“Someone at Winterfell allowed him to leave, and that someone is a traitor,” Daenerys makes a show of ranging her eyes across the Stark bannermen, but her gaze returns to Sansa. “What say you, Lady Stark?”

_She’s going to do it_ , Brienne realizes in rising horror, hearing a strange hollow echo of alarm in her ears. _She’s going to murder Sansa and anyone else who ever looked at her with doubt in their hearts._

She could try to hustle Arya and Sansa out of here, but the way is guarded by dozens of soldiers, and a dragon is staring down at them all, waiting for his mother’s cue to breathe fire and blood down on the Stark contingent. How could Brienne guard her ladies against the might of the dragon queen?

The solution finds her then in a flash of inspiration, makes her lightheaded with how well it might work. It goes against everything she's been taught, everything she holds dear, everything she's sworn to uphold. But she has no chance, and no choice.

She wonders if this was how Jaime felt, a teenage boy hearing a mad king order the deaths of thousands. Was it dread as he knew what he had to do, or was it this odd elation?

“The fault is mine, your grace,” Brienne's voice breaks through the silence like a bell. She steps in front of Sansa, kneels before the dragon queen on her poisonous throne. “I let Ser Jaime escape, and I wrote to Lord Tyrion, and told him that Ser Jaime was on his way. I told him to allow Jaime into King's Landing. If he did not, I swore to him that I would kill his wife, Lady Sansa.”

_Did it feel as natural and easy to stab the king through the back as it felt to do this?_

She, who had never spoken a lie before in her life, let them tumble from her lips like rocks down a hill. Their impact is just as jarring for Daenerys. Her violet eyes pierce Brienne like lances, but Brienne forces herself into composure, to adopt a resigned and ashamed air. She prays the Father forgives her this lie.

She feels Sansa and Jon’s eyes hot on her neck, is grateful that she can't meet their gaze from this position. If she does, she knows the game will be up. 

“Ser Jaime is dead, and with him my hopes for the future,” she continues, and wonders giddily if lying is always like this. “But I can clear my conscience and honor my vows to speak the truth. I allowed Ser Jaime to leave Winterfell to rejoin his sister. The blame lies with me, not Lady Sansa, or Lady Arya, or Lord Tyrion.”

Was it more terrifying to see a king on the throne, ranting and raving about becoming a dragon, or to see the unnatural composure of this dragon queen? She considers continuing to explain, then thinks it will sound too suspect.

Daenerys continues to stare down at her. At length, she turns her gaze to Grey Worm, considering. 

“When did Ser Brienne arrive in King's Landing?”

“Late in the morning, your grace,” the Unsullied commander replies. “A Stark soldier reported that she went looking for your Hand, and found him near the Red Keep. Near where the bodies of the Lannister tyrants were found.”

Daenerys considers this and nods, then turns back to regard Brienne. 

“This is not the first time you have stood before me, defending the Kingslayer at the risk of your own life. He betrayed your trust and your defense of his name. Why should I believe that a woman heralded as the most honorable in the Seven Kingdoms allowed her charge to go free, then threatened the lady she was sworn to with death?” Daenerys rose from her throne as she spoke, stepping deliberately down the dais until she stood a few feet from where Brienne knelt. “Why would the most honorable knight in Westeros do this for a man without honor?”

“Because I love him, your grace.” She raises her eyes to the queen's, summons all the pain that had tormented her for weeks since Jaime's departure. “And I believe he loved me. We attempted to be discreet in Winterfell, but I'm certain many could attest to the fact that he shared my quarters for weeks.” Her cheeks burn scarlet at this public admission, but what does she care? It's the truth. 

“Do you expect me to believe that a woman would allow her lover to leave her for another woman?”

She's close. Close enough to kill. Brienne is tempted for a moment, then sees the Queensguard's boots far too near. Even if she managed to land the killing blow, she'd be quickly overcome by the Unsullied. And they would in turn take revenge on Sansa, Arya, and the vulnerable Stark contingent, or the dragon would burn them all. It’s not a risk she can afford.

Denied the satisfying revenge of violence, she turns instead to a weapon she has rarely used before – guile and influence. She's a novice here, and she must show expertise.

“The things we do for love.” She remembers Bran uttering that phrase at Jaime’s trial, remembers the effect it had on her knight. Hopefully it will do the same here. “That includes both myself and Ser Jaime. I believed he was going to retrieve his child with her, come back to me. When Lady Sansa found Ser Jaime had left, she instructed me to send a raven to warn the camp. 

“But I sent a different message to Lord Tyrion. I told him to give Ser Jaime safe passage into the city – and that he would forfeit his wife's safety if he did not. The blame does not lie with either of them, but with me.”

Grit grinds under Daenerys's boots as she spins to look over at Tyrion, flanked by members of the Unsullied. “Is this true, Lord Tyrion? Did this woman threaten Lady Sansa if you did not release your brother to rescue the usurping Cersei Lannister?”

Brienne lifts her chin to look Tyrion in the eye. She's been hard-pressed to look at him thus far – not wanting to see another Lannister go to his doom. But she pleads with her eyes now, begging him to let her save his life, and Sansa’s.

“She did, your grace,” Tyrion rasps. He blinks, then begins to elaborate as only a courtier can. “I received a note by raven telling me that she would cut Lady Sansa's throat in the night if I did not allow my brother into King's Landing by stealth to rescue Cersei and her child, help them escape to Pentos. She bid me stay silent on the matter and that if she sensed trouble, would go ahead and kill Sansa.”

Brienne flashes him a look of gratitude before returning her eyes to the floor.

“Do you have this note in your possession?” The queen’s voice crackles with suspicion.

“Unfortunately not, your grace. It was on my person when we sailed south, and when the Ironborn Fleet attacked us. I swam to shore and found that the note had been reduced to a soggy pulp in my jerkin.”

Daenerys turned her gaze in consternation to Lady Sansa. “You were married to Lord Tyrion?”

She can't see Lady Sansa's face, but hears the hesitation in her voice. She wills her lady to understand what she's trying to do, to play along.

“We were...his father compelled us to marry when I was a prisoner in Joffrey’s reign,” Sansa’s voice is composed, steady. “But he always treated me kindly, never shared my bed because of my young age. He did everything he could to protect me, both during our marriage here, and in the crypts at Winterfell.”

Head bowed once more, and unseen by the dragon queen, Brienne closes her eyes in relief. Sansa understands.

The way is nearly clear.

She just has a bit farther to go.

Daenerys looks to be gritting her teeth, but she’s just been handed a solution on a silver platter. A way to inspire more fear without incurring the wrath of the Northern soldiers, who would certainly rise up should their lady be killed. A way to showcase that after burning down a city, she could certainly keep on killing without a moment’s pause.

“Do not take this as a sign of mercy,” The queen's voice rings out over the assembled crowd in the rubble of the throne room. “I do not wish to begin my reign with executions.”

The irony of the statement is almost too much for Brienne, but she lets it pass, as does everyone else.

“I certainly do not want to begin it with the death of one who is so dear to the Ward of the North, though this should be taken as a salutatory lesson to all those assembled here.” Brienne knows that the queen is facing both Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa. 

Daenerys is not fooled. But she's not unwise enough to provoke the North or anger Jon Snow by killing Sansa, not if someone else is willing to step in and take the blame. And that's all Brienne needs.

“I cannot abide treason and betrayal, though,” Daenerys continues in that hard, loud voice, one that echoes even in a broken throne room. “Therefore, I, Daenerys of House Targaryen, first of my name, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons, sentence you, Ser Brienne of Tarth, to die.”

Despite the clear danger posed by a dragon curled behind the throne, there are mutters and discontented shouts behind her. She recognizes the voices of Stark soldiers that she fought with, those whose sons and daughters she trained with dragonglass, and is moved by their daring, though terrified for their lives.

Daenerys ignores the murmurs and steps forward, Unsullied soldiers at her sides, and lifts Brienne's chin with a finger to regard her. She is beautiful, _so beautiful_ , the kind of beauty Brienne once longed for as a girl. But her beautiful face curls into an ugly, hard viciousness that Brienne has only seen in the faces of those who tormented her, who saw her embarrassment and laughed. “Your legacy will be _shame_. Your name will be a byword for _treason_ and _oathbreaking_. I will see to it.”

Tears run down Brienne's cheeks, and she can only hope the dragon queen takes them for ones of shame than of relief. Daenerys drops her hand and turns, her Queensguard firmly at her side.

Brienne rises and bows to the retreating figure. “May I first give this sword back to the Stark family?” she asks. “It belonged to their father, and it should stay with the Stark family.”

Daenerys flicks her fingers in assent as she climbs her throne, not even turning back to look.

Brienne turns, her thumb scrabbling on the buckle of her swordbelt. She meets Sansa's gaze, finally, and sees the younger woman's face streaked with tears. She makes to kneel, for a show of apology for her supposed misdeed, but her lady falls into her arms. Sansa is not sobbing, for she's seen too much to be so incautious. She's also seen too much to let the opportunity for one last embrace with someone she loves go astray.

“My lady, I am sorry for this,” Brienne manages to whisper into Sansa's ear. “I would never, _ever_ betray you...” But Sansa answers with a tighter grip and a soft sob. She knows. 

Another press into her side, wiry little arms about her waist and Sansa's. Arya, her deadly little sparring partner, clings like a burr to her side, not weeping either, but expressing grief in the only way that she can. “Lady Arya, hold your wrath. Don't let this be for nothing.”

“You've protected me more than anyone, stayed true to your oath to my mother,” Sansa whispers back against the metal of Brienne's armor. “She would be so proud. Thank you. _Thank you._ ”

“I hope so, my lady,” Brienne answers. At her side, she strokes Arya's hair, holds both girls tighter. _The Stark sisters_. She's been so privileged to be the one to watch over them. “It has been my privilege to serve you, to see you both grow to womanhood. Lady Arya, it has always been my honor to be bested by you in the training yard.” 

She pulls back to look them both in the eyes, lets her thumbs trace their cheeks, the deadly little wolf cubs entrusted to her care. “Please tell Pod it was my privilege to train him, see him grow to manhood. I wish I could get to see the two of you set this world right. I wish I could knight Pod as he deserves.” 

“Ser Brienne!” Daenerys's voice rings out, interrupting them. “My dragon will not wait forever for you to unstrap your sword.”

Reluctantly, Brienne breaks their embrace, and unbuckles her sword. _Oathkeeper._ Jaime is an almost palpable presence at her side as the familiar weight unhitches from her hip, never to be holstered there again. She wraps the belt around the scabbard, remembering the look in Jaime's eyes when he gave it to her, his face when he told her it would always be hers.

He wasn't talking about the sword, so she can pass it on without regret.

She turns to the Ward of the North, and offers Oathkeeper from upraised palms. Jon reaches to take it, but her hands grip it as he makes to lift it away. Their hands join on Ned Stark's sword.

If she’d had time to really think about it, she would have been slightly mortified that Jon Snow had read Jaime’s letter. But now…she’s glad. And she hopes he remembers Jaime’s words.

“In the Stark prison tent...or somewhere, I don't know where...there is the mate to this sword. Jaime's sword. They were both made from Ned Stark's greatsword. Please, reunite them – do not ever let them be set apart again.”

She looks him dead in the eye, wants him to know what she means. These may be the most important words she ever speaks. “Lord Jon, Ser Jaime left me at Winterfell to try and save the people of King's Landing. It broke our hearts, but he had his mission.”

She squeezes his hands more tightly over Oathkeeper. “There is yet one thing he wanted to accomplish that is undone. _Duty is the death of love._ Remember that. It’s terrible, but it’s true.”

He looks at her, a world of sorrow in his eyes, and he understands. And Brienne is sorry, so sorry. She would do this herself, if she could. She knows not what it would be to kill someone dear to her. She's grateful she never had to find out.

She releases the sword, takes a final look at the Stark family. Bran regards her with as much interest as he seems to take in anything, and nods. An honorable family, with a courageous mother and father. She is pleased that her life's work has been to protect and serve them. They'll help shape the future of Westeros.

The Unsullied grip her arms roughly, unnecessarily so. She's ready for this. They strip her armor from her, and all she can think of is Pod doing the same on their nights on the road, cheering her with his merry talk, improving every day as a knight and soldier. She thanks the old gods and the new that he will not have to witness this. She wishes there was time to ask him to take over protection of the Starks, but knows this is a choice he will have to make for himself. Brienne made a point of swearing herself to people, not houses, and she would not deny him this freedom of choice. 

_To give my life for yours if need be..._

They pass by Tyrion, who stares at her with such sorrow that she almost regrets this, regrets adding on to his sorrows of the day. Brienne can still feel the weight of his head on her shoulder, bowed with grief over the man only the two of them would truly mourn. She wishes she could touch his hand in comfort, remembers his head on Jaime's shoulder, his face alive with laughter and joy in the candlelight. He's a man who loves to make others smile – much like his brother. 

So she smiles softly at him instead, hoping that he knows she is not at all afraid, that she regrets nothing.

Nothing except that she wished she'd had more time with Jaime, time for loving and fighting and living, time for honorable marriage and raising a small army of blond children. _Always that._

The Unsullied soldiers deposit her before the throne, stripped of all but her linen undershirt and trousers, an attempt to humiliate her one last time, make her shiver in the winter chill, force her to look craven. It makes no difference. She's far beyond all that, has never felt so hard of purpose and soft of heart before. If Jon Snow takes her message to heart, if she can protect Lady Sansa from those who would do her harm, then victory is close enough to taste.

From her position, she looks at the Dragon Queen with a mixture of pity and revulsion. Missandei had spoken so reverently of Daenerys's quest to free Essos of slavery, to protect the smallfolk and improve their lot. She could not reconcile that woman with the one who now sat in the Iron Throne before her, the corpses of thousands that she'd murdered still smoking in the city behind them. 

Behind her, Drogon stirs, knowing that his mother requires something more of him. His neck curls sinuously, eyes focusing on the lone woman that dares approach him. Brienne looks with a bit of wonder, still, on this creature who will be her death. 

Daenerys waits for the crowd to step back. Her eyes dart back and forth, seeing the disagreement on faces. But she who has just razed a city to the ground is not one to be countermanded, and move back they do. 

Brienne's gaze drifts from the dragon to the sight she has studiously avoided since that first horrible glimpse when she entered. Jaime's body, broken and twisted and brown with dried blood, swaying gently from where soldiers have hoisted him by his shoulders with rope. She ignores Cersei beside him, looking instead at the expression on her beloved's face, easier to see this close.

He seems oddly at peace. Perhaps it is the distance, perhaps it is the amount of dirt and dust coating his face, but he looks more asleep than dead. 

And suddenly, she's no longer in the throne room, but back in their little room in Winterfell. The memory roars to life, and she can almost feel his warm breath on her brow, the tickle of his chest fur against her breasts, the arm curling around her waist as she rests against his beating heart. The fire crackles behind them, and Brienne sleepily contemplates how strange it still is to wake up in bed with a man. She’d slowly accustomed herself to the idea of sharing this intimate space, moving in gradual stages from her accustomed position of sleeping on her side into what could only be called a cuddle, an earthy comfort she has never before known. The fire pops, and she wonders whether she needs to get up, or if she can spend a precious few more minutes wrapped up with him.

" _Brienne..._ ” Jaime exhales against her hair.

" _Hmmm?_ ” she replies, more of a vibration than a word. 

" _Brienne..._ ” And she looks up to see his face is still relaxed in sleep, his eyes moving behind his lids in a dream. She blushes at the feel of that very male part of him waking up, and at the realization that he wants her, even in his dreams. 

Feeling greatly daring, despite everything they've done with one another during the past week, she reaches over to feel his heart beating underneath her palm, then rolls her head over to kiss the stump of his wrist, then the space over his heart. 

“My love,” she whispers, daring even more greatly. “Jaime.”

His arm tightens around her waist, and he reaches with his stump to lift her chin, so she can see his sleepy-warm smile, see the love in his warmer eyes. They kiss, but almost more than the kiss itself, she loves the pressure of his stump holding her head, his hand gripping her waist. Brienne prays that she’ll never have to let him go.

She blinks, and returns to the throne room, to Drogon moving closer, to Daenerys watching her in consternation as she steps lightly towards the dragon with apparent unconcern. This close, she can really see why the dragonglass was named so – Drogon's scales shine with a dark iridescence that's sharp as a sword and just as deadly. _He is as beautiful and as dangerous as his mother_ , Brienne thinks as she approaches these two creatures of fire.

She's done what she can do in this life, to the best of her ability, and preserved her honor up until the very end. She achieved the knighthood she had so long craved, knew what it was to love and be loved in return. Her last act will be one of protection.

Brienne smiles. A good life. 

_And if the gods are good, I'll see him again very soon._

“Dracarys.”

_Jaime._

***

Tyrion had seen Drogon burn people before. He was familiar with the sudden whiff of sulfur, the blast of intense heat, the screaming. The one comfort was that it seemed to be over soon. 

He watched, at a loss for words as Ser Brienne, stripped of armor and weaponry, of everything but her honor and courage, approached Drogon as if the dragon were an object of fascination than terror. He sees her gaze stray to the pitiful broken body of his brother, wonders what memories she is reliving. 

_Was she smiling?_

Daenerys seems to be having the same thought, because she stood up abruptly, as Drogon snarled. 

" _Dracarys._ ”

The dragon opened wide its jaws, letting Tyrion see deeply into its throat, where fires kindle and glow golden. The torrent of flame rips forth, and the crowd pulls farther back with a cry, hands shielding themselves from the explosion of heat.

Tyrion owes his life to this knight, and he owes it to her to see this happen, to be with her in this moment. He prays to whatever gods might be listening that her pain is brief, her reward great.

But where the Tarly men had incinerated like tinder, where Varys had burned like a scrap of parchment, Brienne seems to be taking longer.

She does not move, but stands there, enveloped in flame, still smiling, her head turned to regard Daenerys. The queen's mouth opens, her eyes widening, and Tyrion's own jaw falls open as the fire hesitates. It lasts, and soon the crowd begins to notice, to gasp. 

Her linens turn to ashes, and her body glows golden-orange in the dragonfire. Brienne continues to stare and smile at the queen. Tyrion has seen Daenerys shocked, seen her fearful, seen her surprised. But he's never seen this complete unnerving of her composure before.

But all too soon, the phenomenon is gone. The rest of the lady knight's body ignites, whatever protection she had failing her. For the briefest of moments, she is a pillar of flame and blazing light in the grey day. Screams echo throughout the ruins of the throne room, and all too soon, Tyrion realizes that some of them are coming from his own throat.

“So perish all traitors!” Daenerys tries to cry out, but it comes across as more of a croaking question. 

She gestures at her Unsullied soldiers to clean up Brienne's remains, an assortment of charred limbs on the floor. The soldiers beat at the remaining flames with their cloaks, trying to extinguish the last rays of the Evenstar's heir. Tyrion supposes she would be strung up as well, except there's nothing in the burnt and blackened remains to indicate why this person was so remarkable.

And there was nothing special about a charred body in King's Landing these days.

Drogon launches himself away, strong beats of his wings whipping up a strong wind in the throne room. The bodies of his siblings sway, torches and candles are extinguished, and the room goes eerily dark, save for the fires still kindled by Brienne's body.

“Lord Tyrion, you are free to go,” Daenerys says, suddenly too close. Tyrion realizes that he's been staring at Brienne's remains for some time. A soldier unlocks his manacles, and Daenerys approaches. She lowers her voice then, only the Unsullied to hear her words.

“What was Lady Brienne's bloodline?”

The question is so incongruous with what he has just witnessed, it takes Tyrion a few moments to rack his wits for information about Tarth. 

“The isle of Tarth, in the Stormlands,” he breathes out, voice unsteady with anger. “Ser Brienne is...was descended from the Andals, from Houses Durrandon, Baratheon...and Targaryen.”

Daenerys Targaryen has made herself a kinslayer, though she has just now discovered it. “She was blood of the dragon?”

“I suppose so,” Tyrion snaps. “Far back in her line. Not that it matters _now_.”

“Weak, but present,” Daenerys ponders on, oblivious to his simmering anger. “That was why we didn't intermarry with the others...”

She spins again, away from him, towards the throne, walking quickly. “Everyone out!” she calls out, not bothering to turn her head. “I must needs confer with the Warden of the North.”

Jon Snow, perpetually mournful, looks up at her on her coveted throne. There's a resolve in his eyes that Tyrion thinks he can place, thinks he might have felt too, once upon a time. He takes the sword – _Oathkeeper_ , Tyrion remembers Jaime recounting that tale, beginning to realize how long ago this connection between his brother and the Maid of Tarth had been forged – and places it in Arya's capable hands. 

The crowd scurries away, most glad for the opportunity to get away from Daenerys Targaryen's presence. Tyrion looks back a moment, at the lonely figure of Jon Snow, awaiting his queen at the base of the throne.

A hand on his shoulder, suddenly, steering him towards the Stark contingent. 

“Stay with us,” Lady Arya hisses into his ear. “Ser Brienne died for you as well as us. You're under our protection now.”

Tyrion wants to argue that he's not so much under her protection as they are in the same uneasy boat, but he's grateful for her all the same. They continue their journey outside the city, to rest in Sansa's tent, shaken to their core. Perhaps not Bran, he notes. But he's not sure if what Bran is now can actually feel fear or sentiment. 

The way is lined with blank-faced Unsullied soldiers by the keep, giving way to hard-faced Stark soldiers by the walls. He sees the banners of Sansa's tent, exhales in relief at the thought of resting his legs and losing himself in tears and wine.

Pod's face suddenly materializes in front of the tent, anxious and so very young. Tyrion looks at him in befuddlement for a moment. How could he look so puppyish, when he'd fought so many battles?

“My lord!” he cries in astonishment. “You’re all right?”

Then Tyrion realizes that Pod doesn’t know, sees the young man scanning the crowd for a tall blonde woman who doesn’t appear. 

“Pod,” he croaks. “Come here.”

The boy hurries over, continuing to glance up at the crowd. “Ser Brienne wanted me to stay here, my lord,” he muttered, both embarrassed and wanting to be discreet in his joy, knowing that spies from the queen might be listening. “She was afraid you would be executed, didn’t want me to see it, but I knew you were too clever for that.”

“Pod,” he continues, grasping the squire’s elbow, attempting to pull him to a quiet corner between tents. “We need to talk.”

“I’m to help Ser Brienne with her armor when she returns,” he reminds Tyrion, still watching the crowd, brow furrowed that Lady Sansa has already entered the tent without her sworn sword.

“Pod,” he tugs more sharply, and Pod finally focuses on him. “She’s not coming.”

The lad pales, glances sharply at what remains of the Red Keep. “The queen imprisoned her?”

Brienne shielded him with her own life – he owes it to her to care for her squire. He should be able to speak clearly. But there’s a knot in his throat that won’t clear.

Instead, he looks Pod in the eye as kindly and sadly as he can, his mouth twisted shut to choke back the tears that this most terrible of days has wrought.

He shakes his head. 

Pod blinks, once, twice. He looks around again, as if Brienne will stride over from behind a tent and put to rest the Lannister lord’s ridiculousness. “She…no…”

As if there was some transfer of composure, Tyrion finally speaks past the lump in his throat. “She was executed by the queen for letting Jaime leave Winterfell. The queen was ready to execute Sansa, but Ser Brienne stepped in front of her, and took the blame for everything. She even shielded me in her confession – I live thanks to her.”

The words spill out in a rush, and Tyrion isn’t sure if Pod heard anything after the first three words.

Pod’s face crumples, but not into tears. He looks blankly around with hot eyes, looking for something to smash. He settles on a spare helm sitting on the ground – did no one in the Stark army bother to wear one to sack the city? – and snatches it up in desperate hands. 

Tyrion watches dully as the boy beats the metal against a convenient rock. Sharp and hard at first, with blows that must make his shoulders ache. Then, with less fury, less intent. Finally, he flings the dented metal away and falls to his knees with a broken moan. He’s not weeping, not yet, just making terrible sounds like that of a dying stag.

Tyrion approaches Pod carefully, unsure if the lad’s grief-stricken rage has truly subsided, and embraces him. Pod has, for all intents and purposes, lost his mother and mentor, the woman who schooled him from an awkward page into a formidable young soldier.

Pod will not lose him as well. Tyrion would swear it on a sword, though he’s unarmed. 

A sound in front of them, and Tyrion spies Sansa looking at them sympathetically from the tent flap. Of course. Pod’s grief had not exactly been quiet. She glides over to them, getting slowly to her own knees and putting a hand on Pod’s shoulder. 

“Ser Brienne died with true honor, Pod,” she says with kindness. “She lied to the queen’s face to protect myself and Lord Tyrion from harm. She backed the queen down and forced her hand in Daenerys’s first few minutes on the throne. She died a hero.”

She puts her white hands against the squire’s cheeks, delicately thumbs away his tears. “She spoke of you, to us, in her last minutes. Ser Brienne said that it was her great privilege to train you, to see you grow to manhood. She said that she regretted not being able to knight you as you deserved.”

Together, they raise Pod to his feet, pull him into the Stark tent. Ser Davos comes over, puts a fatherly hand on the lad’s shoulder. He trembles still, and Tyrion resolves to watch over him.

Sansa speaks with the Stark commanders, her young face tipped up to their lined older ones. Tyrion imagines she's setting out extra watches, securing their perimeter. Not that soldiers will be any defense against Drogon, should Daenerys choose to wield him against them.

But Ser Brienne bought them some time. Not much, but enough to see them through to the next day. And if they were smart, perhaps the next as well.

A scratching at the tent flap, and Ser Davos and Lord Gendry Baratheon are gestured in, coming to stand in the spare interior. Chairs are pulled out, and Tyrion manages to find a flagon of wine. Not the best, but anything that might erase the horror of these last few years.

Wordlessly, they all take a cup. 

Tyrion breaks the uncomfortable silence. “You all know, of course, that Ser Brienne never sent any such threat, nor would she even have contemplated such. She loved my brother, but would have never...”

“Lord Tyrion, I don't think anyone in that room believed it. Least of all, Queen Daenerys.” Sansa's eyes are hard, her mouth set in a grim line. “But my death would have riled the North, and the extinction of House Lannister would have upset the Westerlands. She's a murderer, but she's thinking very clearly.”

He looks around out of habit, wary of eavesdroppers, but Bran shakes his head. Tyrion doesn't want to know how the Three-Eyed Raven knows.

“Lay low,” Ser Davos advises. “Lay low and see if we can get out of King's Landing. The more distance we can put between us and that dragon, the better.”

“I could do something,” Arya murmurs. “Revenge isn't everything, but survival is at this point. And it wouldn't hurt for it to happen at the end of this sword.”

It’s the smart thing to do, much as he hates himself for admitting it. The woman he had chosen to follow to the ends of the earth, against family and death itself – needed to die. The sooner, the better. 

Could this little warrior hold the key to their future, once again? Would it be with that pretty Valyrian steel dagger he’d gambled away so long ago?

Arya draws Oathkeeper from its sheath, the deadly steel shining red in the candlelight of the tent. “This was Ice?” she asks, holding it in one hand and pointing it up, in the direction of the throne room. 

“Half of it,” Sansa replies, watching the light play on the shining weapon. “The other half made Ser Jaime's sword. We should see if we can find it.”

Arya's other hand tips, and something white slides out of the scabbard and onto the floor.

Davos leans forward to scoop it up, a folded piece of parchment, and hand it to Arya, who sheathes Oathkeeper and sets it in Sansa's hands. She unfolds the letter and scans it before the small audience. Wordlessly, she passes it into Tyrion's hands.

Tyrion recognizes it – the letter that Jaime had insisted on writing before he smuggled his brother into King's Landing, ink spattering against his hands in the dim torchlight, asking that it be discovered later in Tyrion’s tent. He recognizes Jaime's crabbed writing, wandering across the parchment in his brother's efforts to keep his left hand in control. He can see the nearly frenzied expression on Jaime's face as he poured words onto the parchment in a fever, the last words he had for Ser Brienne.

“It's the letter my brother wrote to Ser Brienne the night...the night before he died,” he says to those watching. “He wouldn't leave the prison before he wrote this.”

Sansa lifts her face and nods at him, and he lowers his own face down to the letter, to her unspoken request. 

_“My lady and knight, the keeper of my heart, my Brienne,” he began. “I did not mean to leave you as I did in Winterfell, with only the coldest of comfort. If I looked back at you, I would be lost, and I could not leave this final task undone. Duty and honor compelled me to ride south to try to surrender the city and protect my unborn child – or to kill my sister and Aerys’s daughter to end this war if such is not an option. It is not a responsibility I could assign to another, nor a sin that I could put on anyone else.”_

_“I have a long list of sins in my life, but the only one I can find it within myself to truly regret is leaving you, especially as I did. They say duty is the death of love, and though duty pulled me away, it does not kill my love for you. I did not want you walking into this danger with me, this danger of my own making. I do not expect to live to see tomorrow night. If I do, though, I swear I will crawl on my knees if needs be, to Winterfell, to be in your arms again-”_ Tyrion feels his voice pitch high, then crack. He closes his eyes, takes a breath.

_“I told you once that Oathkeeper was yours, that it would always be yours. That was true, but it was not just the sword I referred to. You are the sole woman who keeps my heart, and if I manage to win, manage to beg your forgiveness for the wrongs I have done you, I will also beg for your hand. Every one of our separations has been hell, and if you can find it in your heart to pardon me, can tolerate my unending stupidity, I will swear before the Seven to never leave your side again.”_

_“Nothing in my life has ever been so dear as your loving regard. Nothing has ever changed me so much as your strength of will, your stubborn insistence on seeing something in me that still I cannot. If I never get to say it to you again, I love the way you fight, I love the way you defend me to the world, I love your beauty, I love your sweet kisses, I love the gift of your laughter. I love the way you fall asleep in my arms, I love when you say my name, I love your kindness, I love your understanding, I love your honor, and I love your smile. I love you, I love you, I love you. Jaime.”_

He finishes the letter in a strangled voice, grief a throbbing wound in his chest. He can’t meet anyone’s eyes.

“Well, he wasn’t a poet,” Tyrion mumbles to the floor. “But my brother’s heart was true.”

A touch on his arm, and Lady Sansa is suddenly there, embracing him from her knees. He’d thought her even more hard and unyielding after her ordeals in the north, but no. There’s warmth and purpose here, a shared grief that binds them.

His lady wife and he, they whom Ser Brienne had died to protect, sat bereft on a plain outside the gates of King’s Landing. The knight herself now lay in charcoal on the throne room floor, his brother and sister dead and swaying from the ramparts above, the city in ruin and death below. 

He holds her in his arms, wishing it could just end there. The world was hideously ugly, from what he’s been able to see. Those you believed in, protected, sacrificed for – eventually turned on you and the innocent. Those who survived the perils of self-betterment perished trying to quash their demons. 

He breaks the embrace and looks her squarely in her beautiful face.

“What are we going to do?” he asks. “She spoke of liberating Winterfell and Dorne to her Dothraki and Unsullied. She thinks she has _liberated_ King’s Landing. How do we guard the realm against a dragon at the command of a madwoman?”

For a moment, his question hangs in silence. Then, a terrible dragon’s roar rends the air, a piercing wail that goes on and on. Both he and Sansa clutch their ears in pain. Arya and Gendry run outside the tent, and he makes to follow them. 

“The dragon!” soldiers are calling out, and he follows their gaze to the ruins of the Keep. The sky is choked with ash and smoke still, and the dying sun lends little light to the day’s end. There is a glow of some wicked fire being ignited – around the Throne Room? – and he knows at once that something else terrible is happening today.

That wailing reptilian scream starts up again, but this time, Drogon lifts up from the ruins of the Keep, a dark wraith in the sky. He takes a few moments to survey the city he destroyed at his mother’s bidding, then glides east. Tyrion can see his talons clutched oddly, as if he is carrying something. He cannot see a smudge of silver hair on the dragon's back.

“Where’s she going?” Pod growls in consternation, eyes trained on the dragon.

“Nowhere, anymore,” comes the voice of Bran. The party turns to look as Ser Davos wheels the young man forward. “Jon has succeeded in what Ser Brienne asked him to do. The queen is dead.”

“Jon,” Sansa whispers, no longer watching the dragon, but focused on the Keep. “Lord Royce!” she calls out then, much more loudly. “Lord Baratheon! We must needs march back into the city! Gather your men at once. We must protect our king.”

“Against a dragon?” Lord Royce has not been privy to Bran’s pronouncement. “My lady!”

“Not the dragon,” Sansa replies grimly. “Against the Unsullied.”

***

_Earlier that day…_

He staggers up the stairs, screaming agony gripping him with every step as his innards struggled to stay inside. He knew wounds, and Euron's stab was fatal. He can feel blood trickling down his side, far too much for him to heal from.

He's going to die in this damned place.

But not yet. Not _yet_. He still has things to do.

The Keep rattles again, and Jaime struggles to keep his footing as tiles pour down amidst a shower of dust and plaster. 

He needs to see his child safely from here if he can. And if not, he needs to make sure that Cersei can no longer harm anyone. He's too late to keep the queens from destroying the city – Cersei's intransigence and Daenerys's madness have doomed the smallfolk.

He rang the bells, prayed that that would put an end to the madness, that he could save the city once again. 

But no. The bells seemed to instead ignite the wildfire of that woman’s vengeance. And the city was burning, people dying and screaming and calling for mercy that did not come.

One more reason to just sit down on these steps, weep, and wait for the Stranger to take him. He'd sacrificed everything as a teenage boy with a sword and a terrible choice to make...and in the end, he'd only managed to delay things for a time.

Everyone exclaimed how he and Cersei came into this world holding each other, him clinging to her foot with his sword hand, now long gone. He wonders now if he wasn't trying to hold her back, if some knowledge of what she would be had been revealed to him in their mother's womb. His first act of protection, perhaps. 

He presses his arm against the wound, groaning at pain that blinds him, light bursting in his eyes. But it holds him together, steadies him a bit longer, lets him catch what he can of his breath. His last act of protection, and he'll see it through.

There's a boat docked at the bay for Cersei if luck is with him, a dagger on his hip for her heart if it's not. 

Where would she be? Perpetually on a balcony, watching the destruction unfold with a glass of wine in hand? In the throne room, perched on a pile of swords, a vial of poison in one hand? Perhaps she'd already escaped? Perhaps she was already dead?

But his feet know what his mind is undecided on. The Holdfast. The map. 

The last place he saw her, in the act of betraying not only honor, but the world of the living. _Nothing matters but us_ – she took the words to heart, lived her life according to them. And even he ceased to matter to her after time. _Had he ever?_

As if the memory conjures her up, he spies her across the map, fleeing the chaos. No Queensguard protecting her, no Qyburn sidling along beside her. It's uncharacteristic for her to be this unprepared. Did she really think a few crossbows would work against the might of a dragon?

He leans against a column, trying to find an inhalation of air that won’t feel as if his lungs will collapse in the next instant.

Cersei spies him then, and her entire face lights up like a candle, her slim body going still. 

Her slim body.

_Slim._

He'd seen her through every pregnancy, and after the first one, her belly had shown itself within the first four months.

She was supposed to be six, nearly seven months gone with child.

_No child._

Had she miscarried, or...?

No. The child that suddenly materialized when Cersei needed it to, when his loyalties had looked shaky after she had blown up the Sept of Baelor, put herself on the throne, refused to mourn over Tommen, cursed him for offering Olenna a comfortable death, contemplated marriage with that foul pirate.

He'd cast Brienne aside for a lie.

Cersei picks her way through the debris, crossing Dorne and the Stormlands to arrive at his side. She looks at him with an expression that he'd yearned for years to see on her face, and he finds it rotten with age and mistrust.

All he can do is look at her in shock, features slack. Had he hoped so much for a child that it had outweighed everything?

He can hardly hear anything over the rattling of the walls and the collapse of debris, but the beat of his heart is drowning out everything else. As is the urge to cry.

Jaime wishes then that he'd never come back to this place. He'd wanted to make sure his child got out safely, knowing that a Targaryen would not hesitate to murder an infant. Once, just once, to hold his child, raise it as a father should, rather than watch as an uncle from the shadows.

He could have had that with Brienne. They could have raised a family together in honor, with a woman he loved unashamedly, who loved him in return, who never loved him as a matter of vengeance or with calculation in her eyes. A woman who taught her daughters to fight, not to seduce. Who taught her sons kindness, not cruelty.

Now he's here, with this hateful woman, trapped in a pattern he can never seem to break.

He reaches out, trying to make sure, to lay a hand on her belly. Perhaps with age, women didn't show as much?

But no. Flat as a flounder.

Cersei takes it as a request for an embrace, and he lets her do so, folds his own arms around her out of habit, perhaps to kill her in a moment. _You've killed me, you hateful woman_ , he thinks, closes his eyes and bows his head in despair against her shoulder. _You've killed the future I might have had._

Even if he walks away right now, he's not getting far. Euron saw to that.

She's smiling, murmuring about him being hurt, about being so glad he came back for her. The dull ringing in his ears finally fades enough for him to reply.

“It doesn't matter,” he gasps, each word tearing into his flesh. Nothing matters anymore. Everything he worked to protect, to achieve, to raise up in his life is gone. All save this hateful, hateful woman.

He should reach for his dagger now, sink it deep into her heart and leave her to bleed out over the image of a country that their house has demolished. Jaime would at least have the satisfaction of seeing her eyes widen in betrayal, have her know of his hatred before she died, know that everyone saw her for the horror that she was.

But such deaths are remembered. Deaths like Aerys's, who, even though people had hated him, hated more that someone had killed him in such a spectacular fashion. 

Cersei deserves an ignoble death, one that could be visited upon any of the smallfolk. _No poetry, song, and story for her, no misbegotten sorrow for a queen that lost her children and then her crown. No bleeding out at the foot of the Iron Throne, or across the map of Westeros. Let her death be common, her memory faded and lost to a maester's footnotes._

It's the only revenge he can take that will last. Cersei Lannister dead, crushed by rubble, attempting to escape the war she'd brought upon her people.

Tyrion's likely to die as well, their entire house wiped out in a matter of days. Tyrion could have the spectacular death, the dragon queen will probably give it to him, and memory of him will survive. He supposes his own body beside hers will cause some comment, but he's got no choice anymore.

And if, by some miracle, his letter makes its way to Brienne, she'll know the truth. 

As with everything else, if she knows the truth of his soul, he'll rest easy. If Brienne trusted him, he felt he could trust himself.

The Keep shakes again, and Jaime rouses himself. His own time is short – if this is going to happen, he needs to move now. He leads Cersei down the stairs, ignoring her whimpering pleas, ignoring her requests to try another exit, ignoring the blood squelching as it pools in his boot, ignoring the feeling that his intestines are about to spill out of the wound in his side.

They reach the crypts after an agony of concentration, Jaime half-blind from the pain. He’s used to pain, knows how to set it aside if he can. But there’s nothing to fight in the meantime, nothing to hold his attention and focus on survival.

He had hoped to die with a sword in his hand, but it will suffice if he can get this done. His last act will be one of protection, keeping Cersei from the world, keeping her from getting across the sea to strike back with war and bloodshed. Daenerys Targaryen has won this battle, much pain may it bring her. 

But the dragon queen is out of his reach. Someone else will have to take responsibility for ending her reign of terror.

He could kiss the Targaryen bitch right now, though, because the dragon’s continuing rampage has collapsed part of the ceiling, blocking off one of the exits. It’s not the only one, not by a long shot. But if he plays this right…

Jaime clambers painfully up the pile of slag, taking note of the ceiling as he goes. If they shelter under the stone girder, it should hold, protect them from the collapse of other parts. There are cracks and fallen dust under another part, and that’s where he needs to put them.

He lets his shoulders slump in defeat, his head swivel in despair. He looks back at Cersei, who is spiraling quickly into hysterics. She’s sobbing about the nonexistent babe, pleading for him not to let her die, still certain of her hold on him, still certain he'll save her, doesn’t notice him pulling her by the hand towards the Stranger.

The hand he used to try and pull Cersei back with when they were born is long gone, but he holds her face with what he can, growling like a lion at her to never look away – to not see the places in the keep where they would be safe. 

They are ten feet away from not dying, and Jaime cannot afford that, not while his strength is fast bleeding from him. He shouts the old words of comfort, words she lived by, convinces her that they will die. And he makes it true, gripping her face with everything he has, no longer caring if it hurts her, not if he has to die in the arms of this woman.

And suddenly, he's no longer in the tunnels, no longer covered in dust and rubble, but far away, in a little room in Winterfell. He's holding Brienne's face in his hand and stump, the first night they made love. Jaime wants to make sure she feels no pain, wants to watch the play of emotion on her face, but it ends up feeling even more intimate than their other motions. Her legs twine warmly about his hips, grinding agonizingly slow. Her hands are shy and uncertain at first, then wandering across his sweating back, through his hair, pulling his head down to kiss her, then to the side so she could nip at his neck – _what fool said the North was cold? Because they were wrong – it was blazing fire._

His thumb strokes her cheek, and he watches in awe as her neck stretches back, her eyes closing and lips parting in pleasure, breath growing ragged, voice still low and sweet as honey. “Jaime!”

“All right?” he rasps, his restraint nearly gone, hand down for leverage against the bed, but reassured when she smiles. 

“ _Yes_ ,” she moans, and he grins, proud and pleased with himself at putting that look on her face. He’s going to find every way possible to see it happen again and again. “You can…” and she blushes harder.

“What can I do, love?”

“You could…go faster?” Her face creases in embarrassment, cheeks blushing brighter and her eyes dart away. He seizes her face again, capturing her lips in an exultation of joy and grins down at her. Her hands come up to frame his own face, thumbs caressing his cheeks. 

“Brienne, my love, knight of my heart…be careful what you wish for.”

Her laughter is a bright arpeggio of joy that arrows straight to his heart. It’s a gift that bubbles up inside him, making him feel drunker than any wine. She’s known the best and the worst of him, and here she is, trusting him with this, looking at him as if he was honor made flesh. Jaime prays that he will never be forced to let her go.

Abruptly, he’s back underneath the keep, holding Cersei in the one spot that will guarantee her death. He wishes he could die in the arms of the woman he loves. But if he can fulfill his duty to keep the realm safe, eliminate Cersei's threat to Westeros, it will be a good death.

_And if the gods are good, I'll see Brienne again someday._

The world is lost then, in dust and stone that rains upon them, blotting out the sight of his hateful sister. His hand lets go at last, and he gives himself over to the crushing rubble, relieved.

All he can see are those blue eyes full of trust, sapphires worth more than any amount of gold. The light in his darkness that never abandoned him.

_Brienne._

***

The day after the great tumult, Tyrion manages to get the Unsullied to cut down his siblings’ bodies, to turn them and what was left of Ser Brienne of Tarth for proper rites. The Unsullied keep Jon imprisoned, Sansa keeps her armies firmly entrenched in the city ruins as they wait for a kingsmoot, and Tyrion does his best to honor his family.

Cersei, he burns separately on a rude funeral pyre, alone, at the end of the day. It’s a petty gesture, but a satisfying one. No one is around when he buries the ashes in the ruins of the Sept of Baelor. No ceremony, no pomp, just greasy flakes of what used to be one of the most beautiful women in Westeros. Either she’d be reunited there with Tommen and Tywin, or she’d face the wrath of all those she’d slaughtered there. Sometimes he wishes for one, sometimes for the other.

Tyrion is long past worrying about her, though.

With Jaime and Brienne, though, he conducts a small ceremony the next day, outside the walls of the city, at the forest’s edge. Pod and he lift their torches, consigning the two knights to the flames together on a single pyre, letting their ashes blend in the aftermath. 

The Stark family, save Jon, attend. So do many Stark soldiers, a show of support that touches Tyrion, knowing how his family had been hated by the North (with good reason, he supposes). He expects they’re here on Ser Brienne’s behalf, but there’s no jeering, only respectful silence and bowed heads. Certainly Father is turning in his grave right now, and he expects Jaime would laugh if he knew.

He will send half of the ashes to Tarth, where Lord Selwyn can conduct the local rites, letting the ashes of his daughter free into the sea. He encloses a letter with them, informing the lord of all the great things his daughter had accomplished, lays bare the facts so that the grieving father may separate truth from fiction. Tyrion wishes he could escort the ashes himself, comfort an old man who will never see his only child, see the Maid of Tarth and his brother off into the Narrow Sea, then drink till he no longer remembers his own name.

But there are still too many things to settle. The future of the realm is at stake. He limits himself to a glass or two of wine a day. Everyone has penance to do, and this can be part of his.

He pats the box with the other half of the ashes, a handsome encasing of dragonglass. He’ll be taking it to Casterly Rock in the future, for proper internment under the rock. His brother and the lady knight will lie together in stately highborn fashion – and travel the world together in the ocean waves. 

If only they could have done so while living.

The other representatives eventually arrive, and an agreement is meted out. The North remains independent...as do all the kingdoms. Bran takes up the mantle of kingship. No kingdom can move against another, so long as he's watching. He'll help them move in concert, administrate their interactions. The Seven Kingdoms becomes the Alliance of Kingdoms. 

Tied to this is Jon's survival, Ser Davos as Master of Alliance Trade and Commerce, Maester Sam as Master of Alliance Relations, and his own as Hand. The Unsullied and the Ironborn grumble, but the lure of independent rule is too great for much protest from the Ironborn, and when the Unsullied learn that Snow will never take a wife, hold no lands, be consigned to obscurity, they subside. Tyrion can see them itching to be gone from this foreign land, and they take the Dothraki with them. 

He finds his former page then, now a strapping young knight in the Kingsguard. Knighted by Ser Davos, Brienne's sword touching his shoulders, with himself, Queen Sansa, and Ser Bronn in attendance, Ser Podrick now serves and cares for King Bran. 

He's also given other duties, such as the one Tyrion has given him. Though Tyrion itched to complete his brother's entry, left off after Lady Brienne had returned him safely home, it is the rightful job of a knight. And though the duty is that of a Lord Commander, they don't have one of those yet, so the job is entrusted to one who knew them best.

Tyrion perused Pod's entry on Jaime with care, drinking in his brother's story. He looks with particular fondness on Jaime's lasting legacy – the one who tried to surrender King's Landing, the one who, twice in his life, risked life, limb, and honor to save a city. It was only the invader's refusal to accept surrender that prevented him the second time.

Pod now works on the next entry, biting his lower lip in concentration. It's a slightly more unusual one – this person was never sworn in to the Kingsguard, this person was not a man. But after years fulfilling her oath to Lady Sansa (now Queen Sansa), King Bran said that it was only right that Ser Brienne's deeds be recorded for history, and her name is posthumously added to the guard.

Tyrion raps on the door, and the knight starts, then stands to attention. Above his head, displayed on the wall for all to see, are the red blades of Widow's Wail and Oathkeeper. Swords that fought in the Long Night, swords of legend.

“My lord?” Podrick stands to attention, remembers his quill, and hastily stows it in an inkwell. 

“Ser Podrick,” he replies. “How goes Ser Brienne's entry?”

The boy's chest swells. “Well, my lord. I just arrived at Ser Brienne's command of the left flank during the Battle of the Long Night.”

Tyrion nods. “No one better. You were there, after all.”

“I can only hope I do her justice.”

“You did so for my brother, and that would be a difficult job on the best of days. I have no doubt you'll do Ser Brienne proud.” He pauses, indicates that Pod should sit, and clambers into a chair of his own. 

“I'm hoping you can do her proud in one more area,” he continues. “Though this one will require a bit more travel.”

“Anything.”

“The dragonglass urns are ready. I think it only right that you convey the Lady of Tarth back to her father so that she might be honored in the custom of her people.”

Pod takes a quick, steadying breath. “I would be honored. Has her father been informed of her…” he lets the question trail off, but Tyrion understands the delicate question. It’s one thing to convey remains back to a parent, quite another to inform them of the death of their only child.

“I sent a raven soon after the queen’s death, giving him the facts of the war, including those most important to him.”

The boy nods, looking a bit relieved. 

“Thank you, Ser Podrick,” Tyrion nods gravely. “I will outfit you for this journey, and you’ll have an escort befitting Lady Brienne’s rank to accompany you.” He reflects that it wouldn’t be a bad time for Pod to have a squire of his own.

“Ser Brienne,” Pod instinctively corrects him.

“Yes,” Tyrion gives way, at least partially. “Although the rank of Lady is actually higher.”

“The title of Ser was far more dear to her,” Pod replies mildly, and Tyrion is left to wonder where this self-possessed young man came from.

They are quiet a moment, both remembering a night on the precipice of doom, awful wine, drafty fires, Jaime’s face moving from solemn to awestruck, Brienne’s from disbelieving to joyous.

“Does Lord Selwyn know about the Sers?” Pod asks, and Tyrion only nearly chokes down a guffaw at the thought of his brother and Brienne known by that collective name. “Only…I know they weren’t married, and…”

Tyrion thinks a moment. Certainly some rumors must have traveled south, perhaps even to the Sapphire Isle. Did Lord Selwyn know his daughter was the first Westerosi woman to be knighted? That she fought the dead, fought a bear, searched the entire north for Lady Sansa and managed to find and rescue her, commanded half an army? That she won the respect and loyalty of all who truly knew her?

Or was he one of those fathers who would ignore all that in the face of his daughter taking a lover while unwed?

“Perhaps…don’t tell him that they were sharing quarters in Winterfell,” he hedges. “But I see no harm in telling him that his daughter knew love for a man that she saw truly, and who saw her truly. It couldn’t hurt for Lord Selwyn to know that his daughter had been happy. You heard Jaime’s letter – he would have married her in a heartbeat, if it weren’t for everything else. Let him draw his own conclusions.”

He’s actually paying a bard right now to come up with songs that promote a sense of unity between the kingdoms, songs that praise peace and the actions of those who died to preserve it. Ser Brienne has her own song, as does Ser Jaime, ballads that reveal their great deeds. He paid more for a love ballad, a memorable epic with a tragic end. _And smiling, she did stand tall in the dragon’s flame. The last name on her lips was her dear beloved’s name._

It’s the only gift that he and Ser Podrick can give them now – history and popular knowledge will know Sers Jaime and Brienne as models of courtly love. They’ll speak of a woman who cast off the trappings of ladyship and took up a sword. They’ll speak of a man who allowed himself to be shamed and reviled if it would save the lives of thousands. Brienne will be an accepted and honored knight, Jaime will be known first as ‘Ser’ and not ‘Kingslayer.’

Still, Tyrion would rather that the isle of Tarth knew about its lady’s romance before any bards ambled too far south.

“Do you believe in the old or the new gods, my lord?” Pod asks then.

The question catches Tyrion off-guard, and he plays with an empty quill on the table to give himself a bit of time. “To be frank, Pod, I’m not sure I believe in either. If they do, I intend on spending a long time asking them why they allow us to endure the things they do.”

The young knight nods. “Ser Brienne followed the Faith of the Seven, though I knew she spent time in the godswood occasionally. I don’t know what faith Ser Jaime followed, or even if the old gods have heavens and hells.”

And Tyrion understands then, the unspoken question. He knew his brother to never set much faith by the Seven, let alone the old gods of the weirwood trees. He’s no idea what strength Brienne set in the Seven or anything else. But that’s not what Pod is worried about. 

He glances out the window, to the ruins of what used to be the Sept of Baelor. The Faith Militant had scuttled back after his sister visited destruction on them, the everyday Faith followed more quietly in the wake of this. He looks back at the uncertain Ser Podrick, illuminated by the rays of a setting winter sun.

“If you’re asking whether there is truly a heaven, I’m afraid I can’t answer that. I’m a cynical man, and those such as I tend to have problems believing in a reward unseen.”

Tyrion gets down off his chair then, crosses to Pod, and sets a comforting hand on his shoulder. The boy has lost, for all intents and purposes, his mother, and he’s now tasked with comforting her father. A daunting task, but one that he believes the lad is uniquely suited to.

“But we can’t see love or honor, either. And yet we see evidence of them all around us. I believe in love and honor, so why would it not be a stretch in heaven as well? There’s little bits of heaven all around us, Pod – a glass of Dornish wine, the smile of a woman who loves you, seeing a child you love grow up strong.”

He examines Pod's face for understanding, but the younger man's eyes are cast down. Time to cut to the heart of the question.

“We’re told that heaven is for the good, the just, the honorable, correct?”

Pod nods, fingers twitching on his knees.

“I don’t think there is anyone in Westeros half as good and honorable as Ser Brienne, so if heaven exists – and I think it must – she is there.”

“And Ser Jaime?”

“My brother did what he did to save lives, to save his family,” Tyrion replies earnestly. “It doesn’t excuse it, but he kept his oaths, did good where he could, asked forgiveness where he could not. And I don’t think it would be heaven for Ser Brienne without him. If the gods are good, they’re together now.”

This answer seems to satisfy Pod, and he covers Tyrion’s hand on his shoulder with his own.

“I’ll get to work on finishing Ser Brienne’s entry, my Lord Hand. I’ll make a copy of it as well to take with me. And…” he looks over at Tyrion, a question in his eyes. “…a copy of Ser Jaime’s?”

Tyrion nods approvingly.

_The right man for the job._

***

Though the two knights had doubts in the past, both possessed a faith in the Seven, of sorts. Jaime, proudly snubbing the sept and professing faith only in family – found himself calling on the gods to protect a woman who was not kin, to keep her safe and help her fulfill her quest. Brienne, looking for a mother and finding only a hateful septa in her faith, found herself invoking them for her oaths, to serve as seal for her honor, to protect a man she once despised as without honor.

Warrior, Smith, Father, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger – all had disappointed them at one time or another, and often more than once. Other times, they’d been remarkably kind. Then cruel once more.

And now, at the end? 

_The gods were good._

The gods were good at last.

***

**Author's Note:**

> Originally, I was going to have Jaime stumble out of the Keep only after Brienne had died. It felt a little bit too much like twisting the knife, though.


End file.
